


In Dreams

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e05 Cypher, M/M, Pre-Slash, ts chatzy concrit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: What could have made Jim extend that one-week limit?





	In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> For the TS chat concrit prompt of "episode-related."
> 
> Apparently I haven't exhausted my ideas about what happens after Jim saves Blair from Lash.

Silence blankets the warehouse in the wake of those five shots, so abruptly that Blair wonders if the drug Lash gave him affected his ears as well as his limbs. 

Then he hears them. Footsteps. Creaking slowly towards him from behind. 

Fear grips him, his heart pounding in his chest. The shots mean that Jim won, right? He tries to shift in the chair, turn and see who’s coming, but his body won’t respond.

Lash slides into view, his smile dark and ecstatic. “Well, that was a nice surprise,” he croons. “Had a party-crasher. Took care of him. Now it’s time for a bath.”

Blair screams, and lurches into awareness. 

He’s in the room under Jim’s stairs – his room. On his futon, under the quilt Naomi made for him. His books in the bookcase, his papers and laptop on the desk, his Navajo rug hanging on the wall. Not in an abandoned warehouse, not chained up, not drugged.

It was just a dream. He’s here. He’s safe.

He swings his feet to the floor and tries to take deep, calming breaths. 

But it’s not working. His lungs constrict, breath whistling in his throat. Air, he needs air. His heart is galloping like a racehorse. 

The futon, quilt, books, papers, wall hanging, all fade and he’s back in that chair, chained and cold and shuddering with fear. The victims sway silently in their grisly dioramas. Lash’s face swims in front of him; he remembers that unfocused, flat gaze and how quickly it became alive with rage. 

The futon sinks next to him and he flinches, expecting the cold grip of Lash’s hands, the pressure of a knee in his side as Lash pours the drug in his mouth. 

Instead, a warm hand settles firmly between his shoulder blades, then moves slowly up and down his back. 

“Take it easy, Chief.” Jim’s voice is low and soothing, and he feels his lungs open a fraction, allowing him to suck in a quick breath. His heart starts to slow, down to a trot instead of a gallop. 

Now it’s Jim’s face he remembers, a mixture of worry and relief as he unlocks the chains and hauls Blair to his feet. Remembers Jim’s arms around him, strong and warm and safe.

“You want to talk about it?” Jim asks, still rubbing his back. 

“Not really.” He’s dead, Lash is dead, he can’t get you. He can’t hurt you. 

His breathing is at a fairly manageable level now, his heart at a steady, if fast, thump. “Thanks, man, I think I’m okay. Sorry to wake you up.”

“It’s not a problem,” Jim says. “I’ve had plenty of those nights myself.”

He scrubs his hands through his hair. Maybe he can get a few more hours of sleep. “Thanks,” he says again. It’s bad enough that he woke Jim up. Managing panic attacks wasn’t part of the whole one-week roommate deal. It’s a good thing he’s started looking for another place to live. 

Jim stands up but doesn’t leave. He’s glancing around the room. Probably wondering when he’s going to get his spare room back. 

“I’m looking for a place, I promise,” he says. “I have a couple of leads.”

Jim frowns. “Why don’t you stay a little longer, Chief?” he says. “Just until the nightma-- until you’re sleeping better.”

Relief washes through him, relief and something else, something sweet and tender, something he’s too tired to explore right now. “Sure, man, thanks.”


End file.
